


A Dance and A Song

by Vevici



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-18
Updated: 2016-04-18
Packaged: 2018-06-03 00:35:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6589567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vevici/pseuds/Vevici
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Warden-Commander Mahariel rides to Jader to visit her love, King Alistair, who is dying of kingly duties.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Dance and A Song

**Author's Note:**

> for sabraetrash @ tumblr, who requested the prompt: a reunion kiss.

If there was one benefit Mahariel would say of the masks of Orlais, it was that they were effective covers for spies and assassins. Of course, the nobles were aware of the danger; Leliana had told her once a decade ago, it was all part of the thrill of the Great Game. A shame it was not the nobles who solely bled for this beloved Game of theirs. A shame that Mahariel cannot allow herself to take on a servant’s mask and slip her daggers into the kidneys of Duke Yellow-diamonds-Mask for backhanding a nervous elvhen stable boy. That time would come, perhaps. But not in Jader. Tonight, she would dance.

          An Inquisition agent in their stark red uniform ushered the attendees into the gilded ballroom now filled with nobles: feathery and colourful Orlesians on the far side of the hall, furred and russet Fereldans closer to the exit. Inquisition diplomats dotted the entire mosaic floor, tending to the demands and needs of two long-feuding countries. Were it not for the shade her full-mask offered her eyes, Mahariel would have had to squint against the glint of golds and silvers and rubies. Thankfully, she was not obligated to look at Orlesians for very long. Mahariel scanned the envoys from Ferelden, unmasked and weary of the long day of negotiations. Bann Eremon, Teyrn Fergus Cousland, and ah, yes, surrounded by three other men, Arl Teagan. To his right, tall and broad and masked, and absolutely exasperated, was the King of Ferelden himself.

          Mahariel descended the stairs, dodged the attempts of requests for a dance by angling her heeled feet in her already determined path. She was three feet away from the King when she slowed her steps. An Orlesian noblewoman twirled her powdered ringlets around her finger, deep-red lips under peach velvet mask curled in an invitation. Alistair tilted his head to the side, hand lifting in a casual gesture. The smile of the noblewoman’s lips faltered, and after only a half second later brought it back up, bowed, then sashayed to the dance floor.

          Mahariel drifted closer enough to catch Alistair’s comment to Teagan.

          “Should I put up a ‘no, thank you’ sign to get them to stop asking me for a dance? Maybe paint it on this mask.”

          “Not even a barbed and electrical fence would prevent them from trying, Your Majesty. Ferelden is after all, without a queen.”

          Alistair scoffed as he straightened. “There _is_ a promising queen; the nobles are just stubborn to  _not_ acknowledge her.”

          Teagan took a swig from his wine, eyebrows arching. “If only the voices of the people were weightier.”

          Mahariel bit her lip, face warmed behind her mask. If only the world were kinder to the elves. If only the song in her head were merely the band playing a waltz. With a deep breath, she approached Alistair and his uncle. She would have laughed at the tightening of her love’s lips at the thought of another proposition. Smiling, Mahariel curtsied, and said in her best imitation of the Orlesian accent, “It is a pleasure to see you, Your Majesty. Arl Teagan.”

          Both men bowed in turn. Alistair said, “Hm. That would be a first since I woke up this morning. A pleasure to meet you, my lady.”

          Well, his smile didn’t seem too forced at least. “I noticed that you have not taken anyone to the dance floor, Your Majesty. Are you saving a dance for someone, perhaps?”

          Teagan averted his eyes out of decorum, but the slight tensing of his shoulder did not evade Mahariel’s attention. Nor did the guarded air Alistair assumed.

          “Perhaps,” Alistair said. “Or maybe I am such a terrible dancer that it would be best for me to stay put, lest I burn the palace down and everyone in it. That would be a shame considering all that talking this morning. I almost did it in Denerim once, and that was without a single bite of these stinky cheeses.”

          Mahariel laughed before she could stop herself, and Alistair perked at the sound. There was a tilt to his head now, curiosity and suspicion. His eyes, what Mahariel could see behind the Fereldan-lion mask, scrutinized her from head to toe. Then up again, to her eyes. 

          Alistair inhaled through his teeth. “Care to dance, dear lady?”

          A shiver tickled up Mahariel's spine, and she smiled. “And risk the fire?” That brought out a chuckle from Alistair that sparked every nerve in Mahariel’s body, the rumble in his chest enough to drown that infernal call in her mind. Mahariel took the gloved hand offered to her, and she glided toward the swirls of blue tiles. Alistair was warm as always; less robust than he was ten years ago, but firmer in his grip on her.

          “That was a lie,” he said, pulling her into the rhythm of the violins. “I happen to know a few dances. Eamon and my love made sure I got the steps right.”

          “Your love?”

          Alistair smiled, tight-lipped and lopsided. “The one I was saving my dance for.”

          “Your Majesty, then you don’t have business dancing with me.”

          “Oh, but I must, my lady. Otherwise I’d die from utter longing. You see, my love has a very important mission, one that cannot wait. So, instead, I am the one waiting. Waiting to see her face and hear her laugh, waiting to take her into my arms and tell her...” Alistair pulled her closer, grazed his lips on the cheek of her mask. “I missed you. I love you.” His voice dropped, intimate and exclusively for her.

          Blood thundered to Mahariel’s ears as Alistair drew back and dipped his head to kiss her mask, right where her lips would be. Not even the delicate porcelain prevented Alistair’s heat to seep under her skin.

          “And I you, _vhen’an’ara_.” Mahariel tilted her head up, meaning to brush her lips on his, but eyes bore into her back and she froze. “Shall we continue this elsewhere?”

          “I do love how you think.”

          Mahariel curtsied again, gathered her white gown in a fist, and willed her feet not to run up the stairs and into Alistair’s designated quarters. She stopped briefly to clasp hands with Teagan, who sighed and mumbled that he should have expected this from her before wishing her a good night. Mahariel had barely unstrapped the shoes Leliana had sent her when Alistair burst through the door. In two strides, he lifted her up by the waist and twirled her once. Then his face was pressed to her neck and her fingers threaded through his hair.

          She unclasped the leather band of his mask, lifted it over his head, and dropped it on the ground. By the lost Dales, he was exquisite. Tired lines bowed under his eyes and bunched between his eyebrows. Mahariel traced a short scar that arched over his left cheekbone. It healed well, at least. Though no doubt whoever had given it to him had paid dearly. His cheeks glowed with a rosy shine either from the perks of having a regular bath, or because of blood rushing with excitement. Hopefully, it was more of the latter.

          Alistair hooked a finger under the chin of Mahariel’s mask, and with a languid smile, drew it over her face. His large hands cupped her cheek, eyes roving the circles under her eyes, her chapped lips, and the burns given by the sun on her forehead.

          “Maker’s breath, you’re beautiful.”

          “I was just thinking the same thing.”

          Mahariel rose to her toes, back arched to meet her love’s chest, and pulled Alistair to her lips. Three years swept under Mahariel’s feet and she swayed, knees buckling under the strain of all those days and nights without her heart. Alistair’s arm gripped her waist, pulled her thighs to his waist, and carried her to the bed.

          Their kiss slowed eventually, sharing emotions and thoughts left unexpressed for so long. There was fear there too, fear of a song deafening in an empty room, yet mute in each other’s arms.

          “Stay until tomorrow?”

          “Of course.”

          “And the next day?”

          “And the next.”

          Alistair kissed her nose, cheek, forehead, and eyelids. “What about after that?”

          Mahariel brought his lips to hers once again, whispered against them, lashes brushing his cheekbones. “I will remain with you, Alistair. The cure can wait for a little while more. I won’t leave you alone with the song.”

          He smiled. And she wrapped him in her arms.


End file.
